


Never should have strayed

by RedChucks



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mention of deadname, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, You can’t stop me making every character trans!, burial fear, mature for swears and adult themes, trans!Jones, trans!dan, two of them actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Dan and Jones are different people but share so much more than most people realise from the outside looking in. But in the aftermath of the Stray article and then Dan’s jump from the Trashbat window can they find their way forward and make the changes they need to make?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to have a second part, a redemptive part, but only the depressing part would write itself down.  
> Dan has just written the Stray article and Jones isn’t sure he can salvage their friendship.  
> This fic is me indulging my love of Trans!Jones and I really hope I can write the other half of it because I want to give him some happiness.

It wasn’t that things were broken, as far as Jones was aware things had always been cracked and less than perfect, so it wasn’t that. He’d never owned something new and undamaged, not in twenty-five years, and ending up with a best mate who was frayed and worn around the edges, with creased skin and a grubby soul, that just seemed normal. Jones was good at looking after broken things, including himself, so it wasn’t the brokenness itself that was causing his throat to tighten and his chest to ache worse than it ever did when he overdosed on caffeine, no. Something else was wrong, and he didn’t know what to do.

He stood on the threshold of the living room, rocking up on his toes but unable to make himself walk in, even though his decks were calling to him from the corner. The air was still, painfully so, but there was something building in it, a rhythm, a beat that Jones had long ago been told that only he could hear. It was a sense of momentum but Jones didn’t want to see how it would progress, because despite it reminding him of the gentle plucking of guitar strings, there was something else behind it, like the distant scraping of rusted iron heard through a mirror. 

The lights were low and stained orange thanks to the drapes he’d nail gunned to the walls and ceiling to hide the damp stains, making the scene seem like a grubby memory rather than the present reality of his life and he bit his lip as his body arched toward it, wanting the warmth of those colours. The light from the kitchen was a golden glow, beckoning him, tempting him, but the opposite wall held a deep blue grey shadow, like a bruise, made by the impossible mixing of the room’s usual warmth and the pure agony of the man sitting wrapped in darkness, bleeding out the colour until it seemed he’d muted the light entirely, and Jones didn’t dare enter. He didn’t want to disturb Dan. He didn’t want to get sucked in to that murky pool of cigarette smoke stained tears.

Dan was crying. 

The sound made Jones sick, made his throat tighten even more with each raw sob, each desperate incomplete breath and he wanted to cover his ears and close his eyes but just couldn’t seem to do it. His hands were stuck at his sides, gripping the coarse denim of his jeans like it could anchor him somehow, his fingers cramping just like he imagined Dan’s were. Dan had beautiful hands; Jones had always had a soft spot for them, had been rather jealous at how nimble and dexterous and long they were. When he’d first met Dan he’d barely heard a word the man said he’d been so distracted by the music he wove in the air with his hands. Now he wanted to hate them but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so.

Dan’s hands were tangled in his hair, pulling at it like he was trying to remove his own scalp, or his brain, and Jones wondered as he watched him from the threshold, what actually went on inside Dan’s brain. He’d always thought of himself as well below average, the obvious side effect of being told so by parents, teachers, social workers, cops, just about everyone in his life, but he’d thought of Dan as different, as someone intelligent and special. He’d bought in to the hype before he’d even heard it because Dan just oozed superiority of mind. Lately Jones had started to think that all the ‘intelligence’ made Dan’s brain a little unbalanced even if he had a genuinely good reason to crying like he was about to have a brain snap, or like he was grieving. 

Four days ago Jones had stumbled home at dawn to the sight of Dan curled up on the filthy carpet just inside the door, rocking like he’d lost his mind somewhere, and refusing to talk about it, or unable to talk about it. Jones had been confused but knew it’d probably make sense once the latest edition of SugarApe came out because Dan’s writing was usually a solid indication of where his brain was at, and Dan’s behaviour had made more sense then, even if the article on ‘Stray’ had felt like a kick to the chest. 

Jones had figured out long ago that Dan had was something like a masochist. He didn’t do it for kicks though, didn’t get off on it, he just seemed to seek out situations that mentally tortured him, like he thought he deserved it. There was probably a word for it, for seeking out scenarios that were degrading and you knew were gonna hurt your body and your soul, but Jones wasn’t great with words and the person he usually asked about such things wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to deal with that sort of question. Dan just seemed to go through life embarrassing himself and letting dicks like Yeah? humiliate him and Jones was starting to feel like he couldn’t help at all anymore, like there was no point even trying.

Biting his lip hard enough to hurt Jones stepped foot in to the living room, skirting around the murk that was Dan’s dark corner and hoping to hell he’d make it to the kitchen without being seen. Dan didn’t seem to hear him, didn’t look up once, he was so deep in his misery, crying like a kid of fifteen who’d had their heart broken for the first time, and when he made it to the kitchen Jones felt an overwhelming desire to do the same. It wasn’t just that Dan was broken, that he was splintering in to sharp little shards of self-loathing that even Jones was too scared to touch, it wasn’t even the pain of knowing that Dan was doing it to himself and seemed bent on his own destruction. Jones had been watching him stumble down that path for a good two years. What made Jones want to cry was the fact that Dan hadn’t thought to come to him with his problems. 

Dan had written in the article that wanking a stranger had made him a prostitute because even if the guy in the pub hadn’t compensated him for his sore wrist and stained jeans he’d been paid for the article, had been paid to get someone off, had whored himself out to pay his debts and keep his job. He was trying to be brave and sarcastic about it but it had been obvious to Jones as he read the article that the whole experience had been incredibly disturbing and upsetting for Dan, and that he was struggling to process it. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him to make something up, which was what Jones would have suggested if Dan had bothered to come to him and explain the problem. He would have willingly bailed him out (again) if Dan had been honest about the money he owed. It rankled that Dan hadn’t come to him but even that wasn’t the whole sum of why it hurt.

He flicked on the kettle and hugged his arms around himself as he waited for the steam to start rising. He rarely let it get to a proper boil, usually because he was too impatient, but this time he wanted to reduce any chance that Dan would hear him, so he waited until the water was just hot enough but before it could start whistling and made himself a coffee with too many scoops of instant that even he would describe as a bit shit. Life had gone that way so it stood to reason that the coffee should be made to match.

Jones had spent years mooning over Dan, and he snorted angrily at himself as he pressed his hip against the kitchen counter and nursed his mug close to his chest. He’d even put off transitioning out of a misplaced hope that he’d have a chance with Dan if he kept up some pretence that he was female but Dan had never made a move and Jones had decided that he needed to do something to actually make himself happy, and that being mates with Dan was probably less stressful anyway, though he’d never quite been able to stop Dan from appearing in pretty much all of his wank fantasies. Now it turned out that Dan wasn’t opposed to blokes at all but Jones still wasn’t in with a shot ‘cos he didn’t have the right equipment. Jones tried to breath but it came out shaky and he could feel the itch of tears behind his eyes. It was just his luck really. Dan sought out shitty situations but Jones just attracted them naturally.

Dan had readily admitted in the article that he wasn’t against cock, had admitted that he couldn’t reliably report on ‘Straight on Straight’ gay action because he didn’t meet the necessary criteria, and had argued that he couldn’t believe that a man who sought out other men for sexual favours was really straight either. He’d suggested instead that the supposed family man who’d approached him had simply built himself a closet so sturdy that he’d likely never break out of it. An unfortunate side effect of being a builder and living within that toxic, heteronormative society, Dan had said, as if he wasn’t stuck in the same sort of hole, just with trendier haircuts and better drugs. 

It was all such a mess.

He tried to get his breathing back under control when he heard movement in the next room but Dan didn’t make an appearance. Jones heard his shuffling footsteps moving off in the direction of the bathroom instead and soon enough the flat was filled with the vaguely comforting sound of the shower running. Eventually Jones carried himself out to the living room again, avoiding Dan’s corner still steeped in shadow, and settled himself down on his sofa, pulling his headphones over his ears for good measure. He tried to ignore the fact that Dan had stayed in the shower so long it must have surely gone cold. They’d hit bottom he reckoned and he wasn’t sure either of them knew how to claw their way back up. He tried to tell himself that at least things couldn’t get any worse, but it was no comfort. Dan had a knack for finding ways to make himself miserable and Jones attracted misfortune like overdue bills. They were probably doomed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter take place post window jump, after the credits have rolled.  
> And it’s sort of a homage to a couple of my very dear transmasc friends, who come in all shapes and sizes and who I love very dearly.

Dan watched people drift past the open door of his room and wondered if anyone would notice if he got up, got in the lift, and threw himself off the roof. He wondered if they’d care even if they did notice. He had nothing to live for, that was obvious to everyone he was sure, but when he tried to sit forward he realised that he was too weak to even kill himself, and in too much pain, and the defeat was crushing.

He’d gotten himself in to some truly shocking situations over the years but this one probably topped the list, and he had no idea how he’d gotten himself in to it, or how to get out. Ten years ago he’d thought of himself as a quiet and sensible person who knew what he wanted and who he wanted to be. Five years ago he’d fallen in love and was happy with his life in general even if he was too awkward to make a move on his friend. Three years ago his dad had died and his family had told him he wasn’t welcome at the funeral. He’d lost his job the same year because his writing had become too bitter. He’d begged his family for help but had been cut off completely. Only Jones had seen something worth saving.

The downward spiral was easy enough to track really. And at some point his awkwardness had gone from one trait among many to his whole personality and he’d started punishing himself. Claire had barely recognised him when she’d tracked him down and not just because of the physical changes but because, as she put it, he’d lost his light. Even knowing it was completely accurate, it still hurt to acknowledge.

Claire had always been Dan’s favourite. She was the runt of the family, barely 5’6” when most Ashcroft women hit 5’11” at least, and he’d doted on her as a baby because she’d been so fragile. She wasn’t fragile anymore, not by a long shot, but Dan still worried about her, when he managed to look past the fog that always seemed to surround him. Seeing pity in her eyes at what a wreck he’d become had been horrible, had made him feel sick, because he’d had such plans for his life. It had made him feel like he was fifteen again and an anxious, depressed, shaking, wreck coming out to his family, but seeing the apathy and disappointment was worse. Claire had given up on him.

And now he was going to be Barley’s bitch for the foreseeable future and there was no one left on his side. His only hope lay in catching some sort of hospital borne infection. Death with minimal effort, it was all he could reasonably hope for. He wondered whether his family would care, whether they’d claim his body, whether they’d kick up a stink and try to bury him as Danielle.

He watched the door a while longer, lost in the unfocused movement, his thoughts circling and taunting him, until someone stopped in front of his room, jarring him out of his opiate-riddled rhythm, and stood there, rocking like they weren’t sure they wanted to enter, or perhaps couldn’t. Dan watched the young man rock up on to his toes several times before he finally seemed to have built up enough momentum to walk in to his room.

“Jones,” he whispered, not recognising his own voice. “What are you doing here?”

Jones sighed, gripping the shoulder strap of his satchel like it was a life line as he edged forward, seemingly trying to avoid the corners of the room as well as Dan’s general space. Dan wondered how bruised his face was if Jones looked that nervous to be coming near but didn’t ask because he knew he really didn’t want to know. Jones eventually sat down in the chair by the bed, frowning at the cast on Dan’s wrist and the filthy graffiti that already covered it thanks to his horrific colleagues.

“What d’you think I’m doing here, Dan?” Jones asked eventually, and Dan wondered if there was something wrong with his ears because he barely recognised Jones’ voice either. It had gotten a lot deeper over the last few years and Dan felt a smile try to tug at the corner of his lip. For all the shit that went on in his life Jones was something seperate and sacred. He was proud of Jones and appreciated that he never seemed to be sullied by the darkness of Dan’s life. “I came to see how you were getting on,” Jones explained eventually. “It’s what friends do. And I brought in your toothbrush and a few pairs of pants an’ that.” He shrugged and fell silent, waiting for Dan to say something, to say thank you or anything at all, but Dan didn’t seem capable of saying anything and eventually Jones let out another sigh. “I can go if you’d like?”

“No,” Dan said too loudly, making them both jump. Jones looked pained and raised his eyes toward Dan’s searchingly, but Dan looked away. He couldn’t look Jones in the eye. “Stay for a bit,” he mumbled lamely. “Please.”

Jones nodded and they sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. A nurse came in to run obs and said hello to Jones, who ducked his head shyly as he explained he was Dan’s housemate and asked when Dan might be discharged. Dan didn’t catch the answer, he was too busy trying to disappear in to the bedding, but Jones nodded in disappointment at whatever was said and he wondered if it was because Dan wouldn’t be coming home soon, or if he was upset that Dan was to be back in his life too soon.

“D’you remember when I was about to start T?” Jones asked suddenly, when they were alone again, his voice rough and slightly strained, sounding just the way it did when he’d been crying, and Dan looked up, trying to see any traces of red around Jones’ eyes or nose.

“Yeah,” he answered tightly, even though it felt inadequate. His memories of Jones’ journey from a pre-T twink who tried to draw on his stubble to a man who walked confidently through the world and had to shave more often than Dan did were some of the happiest memories he had and he treasured them like he did those of his own transition. “I’m so proud of you, Jonesy.”

“Cheers,” Jones said with a not quite happy grin. “But d’you remember how scared I was? I was shitting myself. Absolutely quaking.” Dan nodded again, wishing he could reach over and hug away the pain that was shining forth so boldly from Jones’ eyes. “D’you remember what you told me?”

“Not all change is bad,” Dan choked out, hating how close the tears suddenly were. Jones was leaving, he realised, and it was for the best because Dan was a train wreck and Jones shouldn’t have to be the one who cleaned up that mess, but it was still an effort not to beg him to stay. “Change is better than standing still.”

Dan had been sweet on Jones almost from the moment they met and he knew he’d mostly failed at keeping those feelings to himself, Claire had cornered him about it within a week of moving in to the flat, but Jones had never seemed to reciprocate and Dan had done his best to just get on with things. Jones was a great friend, the best he could imagine, and the fact that he’d stuck it out for this long was more than Dan deserved.

“Change is better than standing still,” Jones echoed, looking up at Dan thoughtfully. “You told me that, and I’ve tried to live by it, but...” Dan waited in the silence, trying not to fidget or give in to the need to beg for Jones to stay but after two whole seconds of stillness his eye began to twitch and he squeezed them both shut in an attempt to seem less like the psychiatric patient that he was. He didn’t need to give Jones any more reasons to leave. “But I haven’t always done too good at it, Dan,” Jones continued eventually. “I don’t got your brains. It took me ages to figure out I was trans where as you... you marched in to the Dysphoria Clinic at seventeen. Six foot already and well determined, that’s what everyone said. I didn’t even consider I was trans ‘til I was twenty.” He sighed and Dan watched as the frown formed and Jones’ dark eyebrows drew downwards. Jones didn’t think he was clever or worth much and it made anger well up inside Dan that Jones had ever been convinced of such a falsehood, but he knew Jones wasn’t going to believe him when he said that Jones was smart because he never did and now probably wasn’t the time. It was hard enough to keep himself from blurting out that he was in love with Jones when it was obvious that Jones was trying to leave him and he bit his lip to keep himself quiet. “I got to tell you something, Dan. And I really hope you don’t freak, yeah? But I figured if you were gonna freak anywhere this is the safest place so... I think I fancy you, Dan.”

The silence was thick and choking, like cotton wool in the mouth, and strangely Dan wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh or yell or jump out of the bed and swing Jones around in his arms and kiss him, finally, and in his head that’s exactly what he was doing, but his body had seemingly shut down at the enormity of what Jones was telling him.

“Sorry but... _you_ fancy _me_?”

Jones blushed, the stain like wine seeping down from his cheeks to his jaw, and Dan watched his hands tighten on his bag, holding on to keep himself from fidgeting and drumming, holding himself together. “I know you don’t, you know, fancy me back or nothing. But I needed to tell you anyway. I thought you’d died, Dan. That’s what everyone was saying. I thought you’d killed yourself and I just... I wasn’t actually surprised because...” he stopped for breath and Dan reached out his hand, stretching his fingers out from his cast, heart singing when Jones answered by gripping them with his smaller ones. “But I realised I needed to tell you because I’d regret not doing it if you ever did, you know... and I know you probably wouldn’t be in to someone like me, cos you know, I don’t have the equipment, but-“

“Jones.” Dan hadn’t expected his voice to come through so strongly but he suddenly felt sure of himself, more like the man he’d been when they’d first met, and he tightened his grip on Jones’ hand. He needed to move forward, couldn’t live life standing still, not now. “Do you really think I wouldn’t fancy you because you don’t have ‘the right equipment?’ because you’re trans? Jones,” the grin crept back, tugging at the corner of his mouth insistently. “Jones, I’m trans too! You remember that right?”

“Yeah, but-“

“And you’re a ridiculous, beautiful mess! How could anyone not fancy you? I’ve fancied you for five years!”

Jones looked up, blue eyes swimming with tears, and in the next moment he blinked and the tears were tumbling down his cheeks and Dan wasn’t able to reach across and wipe them away because his whole body still hurt too damn much. But even crying Jones was still beautiful. He’d barely been able to look at Jones since the Stray incident, had been too ashamed of what he’d done and what he’d become, and it was like a physical pain to take in the details of Jones’ face after such a self-imposed drought. He’d been prepared for rejection and disdain but not for Jones to admit he had romantic feelings for him. His life just didn’t work that way.

“But Dan,” Jones sniffed through the tears. “You said... you wrote... you said that you weren’t straight, that you like cock, and I...” He huffed and made a face like he’d bitten in to a lemon and Dan felt the shame boil up within his chest. “I don’t have a cock, Dan.”

Dan wanted to laugh again, at the absurdity of it. He recalled the worst argument he and Jones had ever had, how Jones had been justifying his reasons for not saving up for top surgery and had gotten so angry he’d reached in to his pants, pulled out his packer and thrown it in Dan’s general direction. It had stuck to the wall and so the game of splat the packer had been born, and Dan couldn’t deny the grin when it appeared.

“You do,” he chuckled, recalling the laughter that had filled him that night. “I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

A smile flickered across Jones’ lips for a moment before disappearing. “But not a real one.”

“Yeah well I recently found out the real ones are overrated,” Dan reassured him. “It was gross, Jones. I hated it. I hate thinking about it. God, I’m so sorry.”

Jones was quiet for so long that Dan began to stress that he really had damaged his hearing in the fall somehow. He was desperate for some sort of noise to distract him from his spiralling thoughts but didn’t want to force a response, not when so much seemed to ride on what Jones decided to do. He’d never envisioned a scenario in which Jones was interested in him, that sort of good luck didn’t happen to him. He was one of life’s losers, or at least he had become one in the last two years, and beautiful people didn’t fall for him. He just got scary stalkers and pain and humiliation.

“But in the article you said-“ Jones began but Dan suddenly felt determined. It was a strange feeling, foreign after such an absence, but he didn’t want to be stuck anymore.

“Most of what I wrote was to piss of Yeah?” Dan said earnestly. “But it worked a bit too well. He’s got it in for me, just wants to make me miserable.”

“He’s not the only one. You’ve got it in for yourself.” Dan looked up sharply, sure once again that Jones was about to announce that he was leaving because Dan was useless and unlovable, But Jones just looked tired. “I fancy the pants off you, Dan, but I can’t stick around just to watch you destroy yourself. I’m sick of feeling like we’re trapped, like we’re doomed, like we’re stuck in a shitty loop in one of Barley’s godawful mixes, like a needle tripping in a groove over and over. I just... I wanna be happy again, Dan.”

He looked so defeated, as broken as Dan felt, and the urge to throw himself from the top of a tall building was back, stronger than before.

“I understand. When I get out of here I’ll come by and collect my stuff and I’ll-“

The scrape of Jones’ chair across the floor interrupted him, sharp and jarring, and in the next moment Jones was up and pacing, fingers scrunched in the baggy denim of his jeans and nostrils flared.

“That’s not what I meant, Dan!” he exclaimed through gritted teeth. “You’re my best mate and I’ve got the biggest fucking crush on you, yeah? And if you actually like me back and aren’t just shitting me to make me feel better then I think we could actually make this work. But-“

It came out in a rush and by the time he paused for breath Jones was panting and starting to look desperate. He wasn’t usually a big talker, a fact that Dan appreciated most of the time, but it was probably at least part of the reason they had both wasted five years thinking the other man wasn’t interested. He wanted to kick himself, which was an improvement from wanting to throw himself off a building, but not by much because he felt like an idiot, and because Jones was staring at him in desperation, opening and closing his mouth like a mute puppet, silently begging for help.

“But?” Dan prompted carefully, and watched as Jones deflated, his breathing laboured. Dan wondered whether he was remembering to give his lungs a break from his binder, and whether he’d bought a new one in the last year or two. Dan hadn’t really been checking in with him, hadn’t been much of a friend, or the mentor that their psych had asked him to be all those years ago.

“But,” Jones said slowly. “Change doesn’t have to be bad, right? I don’t want to stay still no more, I don’t wanna feel stuck no more, and I don’t wanna be scared no more. All I really want to do... is kiss you.”

He started to move forward, his normally bouncy step tentative, lips red from biting them and frim crying and Dan felt himself struggling to sit forward, despite the intense pain and the opiates making his blood sluggish. But after a few steps Jones hesitated and Dan understood this time that it wasn’t because Jones wanted to leave, but because he needed Dan to show willing. But he wasn’t sure that he could offer Jones anything.

“I don’t want to be stuck any more either,” he told Jones. “But I don’t know what to do. Yeah? and Barley, they own me! I- I don’t know what to do?”

“Yeah, well,” Jones gave him a sheepish grin, taking another step forward until he was close enough to once again brush his fingers against Dan’s. “May have helped you out there. Saw Barley and Claire on my way in, he was bragging about you signing up for his new tv thing.” He frowned again at that and Dan felt the shame and guilt start bubbling up to the surface again but then the grin was back, Jones’ crowded teeth peeking out and the elusive dimple making an appearance, and Dan’s chest began to ache in a way that actually felt right and good. “I told him he was talking out of his ass and that you’d never sign anything he stuck under your nose. So he showed me, cos he’s a boastful shit, and I...” he stopped, grinning too hard to continue and when Dan let his eyes wander up to meet Jones’ he felt himself smile along, swept up in the glee he saw in Those tired, beautiful eyes. “I sort of ate it! Well, the important bit anyway. The bit with your signature on it. He was too shocked to even speak, Claire too. So I bolted in here before they could decide to kick my head in. They don’t own you, Dan. You’re your own man. And mine, you know, if you’d like.”

He giggled, slightly hysterically, and Dan let out a surprised huff, gripping Jones’ fingers with as much strength as he had in him. “You’re mental,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Jones took the final step that brought him so close that the buckle of his belt clanked against the railing of the bed, and then he leaned forward, bringing his lips within a breath of Dan’s. This was it, he realised, the moment where he could decide to step forward and leave all of the shame and horrors and darkness behind, the moment when he could move forward. And so he did. It hurt, closing that gap, and took more effort than it should have done, but once his lips had connected with Jones’, pressing against their softness and savouring the taste of caffeine and burnt toast with raspberry jam, the pain melted away and he felt like he could breathe again, like he hadn’t done for years. Not all change was bad, he reminded himself, and he was finally ready to make some changes.


End file.
